Too Small Hands
by That Buggy Girl
Summary: [Side B fic] Michel ponders on his ability to change the world.


**Title:** Too Small Hands  
**Rating:** G  
**Series:** Side B  
**Characters:** Michel, Free  
**Warnings:** Religious themes  
**Word Count:** 680  
**Summary:** Michel wonders as to whether or not he can make a difference in the world.

**Notes:** Inspired by lyrics from Jewel's "Hands." I've used this song as inspiration for art before; this is the first time it's made it into my writing. I made a correlation between this song and Michel because of the religious themes. I still reason that he is/was Catholic and, as some one who used to be very Catholic, I can write on the dogma and scripture.

I think I can connect Michel to this song most because his name (and my own; my name being a pet form of "Michelle") means "Who is like God?"

Title is taken directly from a Side B chapter.

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Michel doesn't remember much from when he was small.

The memories he has are hazy and few; vague shadows of things that were once were. His mother's curls, honey-colored, so like his own, springy between his fingers. His brother's laugh; the sound of it echoes in his ears. His father tucking him in at night, hands gentle, but he can't for the life of him picture his father's face. He thinks they had a cat. Maybe it was really a small dog. There's no way of knowing, now.

There is one memory which has not faded; one which he wishes would go away.

He remembers being about six years old, decked out in his Sunday best. Sitting in a room full of other primary school-aged children, faces cleanly scrubbed and shinning. He remembers…Mum had dressed him in a little sailor suit that day, complete with a hat, blue ribbons rippling out from behind him in the gentle breeze.

He remembers the Bible passage and Gospel of the day. Matthew 25:31-46. He remembers distinctly the line "I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me."

It stays in his mind, the teacher's explanation of this passage. "We are God's hands on earth, children. When we help one another, we are helping God. When we do kind things for one another, we do kind things for God." She smiled gently, "And we all want to do kind things for God, don't we?"

He remembers…He remembers it as if it happened only seconds ago. He remembers the scent of the lilies in the room; the way the sun glinted off the crucifix on the wall. He remembers the Sacred Heart of Jesus, looking mournfully down upon them; _Be good little children. Don't put me back on the cross_.

He wishes the memory would go away. For if we are God's hands on earth, then is the opposite not true as well? Every time we hurt one another, we hurt God. Every time we make another cry, we make God cry.

_Every time I take a life, I am killing God._

Michel can't bear the sight of his own hands.

Chloé tried to explain it once. They were taking lives for a just cause, after all. The people whose lives they were obliterating were spawn of the Devil, not God. We were standing up for those who had suffered unfairly; those who couldn't raise their own voice loud enough to be heard.

Somehow, that doesn't make it any better.

Michel wishes he could make a difference. He wishes his hands weren't killing hands; wishes they weren't too small to change the world. He wants to be good, so he can one day walk in the Kingdom of Heaven.

"My hands are so small." He looks in wonder at Free, then back at their hands, pressed together, palm-to-palm. Free's hand is broad; even with his fingers spread wide, Michel's seems so tiny. If his too small hands were only bigger…What great things could he go on to do?

"Small," Free agrees, his fingers curling around the little ones still soft with inexperience, "But not useless." How is it that he can always so accurately guess Michel's thoughts? "They are the hands that forgave me, after all." Free's voice is deep, yet so soft at the same time. More of a rumble than anything. "The hands that _saved _me."

Michel looks at their hands again, noticing -not for the first time- how their fingers fit so perfectly together. He thinks for a moment on the idea of his hands saving a life, rather than taking one. He had never thought about it before, but he supposes, in some conceited way, he had saved Free.

He looks up at Free again, eyes shining, happy for the moment.

Free smiles back and he thrills at the rare sign of emotion.

His fingers curl tighter in Free's. He did that. He made that smile happen.

Maybe his too small hands can make a difference after all.


End file.
